


don't teach you anything worth knowing

by anoraregina



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3310121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoraregina/pseuds/anoraregina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>kink meme fill: modern au!rhys is not ashamed of cole but he knows that his friends, colleagues and family are not going to approve of the fact that he's in a relationship with a neuroatypical guy half his age. it also doesn’t help that cole is one of his students.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> kink meme fill of this http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/12606.html?thread=49444670#t49444670  
> also shameless self-gratification.  
> i kind of took the modern au idea and ran away with it. rhys is a phd student/lecturer studying/teaching psychology and cole is a first year undergrad student studying anthropology.

It’s nearly ten o’clock in the evening; the first time Cole sees him, as he’s leaving the campus library, battered shoulder bag hitting his hip, borrowed book tucked under his arm. He’s heading home; he’s waited long enough, thumbing copies of books he has no interest in borrowing, ducking his head to avoid eye contact with the librarian every time she glances his way. It’s not necessary, of course. She never notices him. But he’s loitered around, trailing fingers over shelves of books absent-mindedly, until the library closes every day for the past week and she’s bound to notice eventually.

When Cole leaves, the older man is stood, just off the pathway in front of the campus library, hunched over the smaller figure of a young woman. An unlit cigarette is held loosely between his lips, and his eyes are heavy-lidded as the woman – short, with bright red hair that curls around her neck like a lions mane, and a peppering of dark freckles across her nose and cheeks – holds up a lighter with one hand, the other shielding the small flame from the gentle evening September breeze. Cole’s never smoked before; he watches with faint curiosity as the cigarette is lit, as the man pulls away to stand at full height, as long, ink-stained fingers grip the rolled up tube of tobacco leaves – and the man takes a drag, pulling the cigarette from his mouth as a cloud of smoke billows past his lips.

Cole almost wants to approach, to talk to them, to ask if he can try smoking a cigarette. Anything to prolong his having to go home. But Red Hair intimidates him; her eyebrows are set in a permanent frown and she looks at the man as if looking at him _enough_ will make him look at her the way she wants to be looked at.

So Cole goes home instead.

*

Rhys first meets Cole during an introductory psychology lecture he’s giving at the beginning of the semester. Rhys uses the term ‘meet’ loosely.

The undergraduate is the first to enter the room, and sits in the corner at the back of the room, hunched over the desk as if trying to make himself as small as possible, and not once does he glance at Rhys, despite the fact that for a solid five minutes, they are the only ones in the room. A book is open in front of the younger man; Rhys has no idea what he’s reading. At the back of his mind, some infinitely more vain part of Rhys’ subconscious likes to imagine it’s Rhys’ book – copies of it are in the university library after all. But it’s unlikely.

With all the lack of tact that Rhys has surely become known for by now, the older man ducks his head down, leans toward the microphone atop his desk, and greets the boy with a quick, and admittedly over enthusiastic hello, coupled with a grin and a slightly awkward salute of a wave. (In his defence, Rhys is nervous – he’s still not quite used to giving lectures to the kind of audiences the size of this lecture hall can accommodate. It’s not one of the big lecture theatres, but it’s a large jump from the small seminar rooms he’d taught in last year.) There’s nothing charming about his greeting, and the young man responds by jumping, jerking his head upwards, with eyes wide, looking as if he might bolt at any minute, evidently taken by surprise and uncomfortable – perhaps embarrassed – at attention being brought to his being the only one there.

It’s quiet for several awkward seconds. Rhys doesn’t know how to respond, so he quickly looks down at his notes.

“Yes?”

Rhys’ head shoots up. The younger man is staring at him with wide eyes. He’s absent-mindedly picking at the hem of his sleeve with his left hand. Rhys grins, at first, and then notices how timid the other looks. His eyes are wide, as if he’s afraid, though it’s hard to tell as his blonde hair is long enough that it obscures them quite prominently. His knuckles are white where he tugs on a loose thread too tightly, as if desperate to rip it away, as if he’s petrified by the very thought of talking to Rhys. As if that delayed, one-worded response took every ounce of his courage. Rhys’ smile falters.

It’s all he can think to do to stop shuffling his papers and ask, “you alright?” Rhys wonders if asking that is too personal, too invasive.

The younger man blinks, then visibly relaxes, his fidgeting hands dropping onto the desk in front of him. Then he smiles, and nods. “Yes,” he says – again, Rhys notes – and he’s looking at Rhys so intently that Rhys almost feels uncomfortable. “I wasn’t expecting… most people don’t pay me much notice.”

For a moment, Rhys can only blink at the man sat before him, rows of empty desk-chairs between them, before social skills kick in and he manages to find words to say. “It’s hard not to notice you,” he says, before realising how _that_ sounds, and quickly adding, “you’re the only other person here, after all.”

*

Cole has a lecture with him every Monday and Friday. 11am; one hour – 120 minutes every week spent listening to him speak. This module in psychology was only taken as a space filler – Cole presumed it correlated closely enough with his studies in anthropology and that had been that; he’d not presumed he’d take any personal interest in the subject. Then he met Rhys.

Rhys makes Cole’s weekends endurable; he likes knowing that he has an hour with him every Monday and Friday. He likes watching him in his element; he’s not the dark shadowy figure he noticed outside the library here, nor is he the awkward professor uncertain of what to say as he was when he first noticed Cole before his first lecture. He’s disorganised and stumbles on his words sometimes, but he clearly has enthusiasm for what he’s talking about. Cole finds it enjoyable to watch.

Cole was at first perfectly happy to sit at the back of the hall and read one of his books; maybe quietly listen to music – his beat-up old iPod tucked safely into his left pocket like a lifeline – and doodle in the margins of his notebook. When Rhys noticed him that first time, just before the first lecture of the semester began, Cole decided he’d give the man his full attention.

Rhys remembers him, too. Cole’s been attending his lectures for three weeks now, this Monday, and every week he’s moved a little closer to the front row, and away from the corner. He doesn’t like to sit near the front, doesn’t like feeling out in the open usually, but he can’t help feeling a rush of gratitude when Rhys’ eyes fall on him as he speaks.  Rhys likes to look at his audience when he presents – he’s nervous, Cole can tell – and when he sees Cole he sometimes smiles, though it’s only small, detached and crooked, a sort of half-smile, half-meant. Acknowledgement. To Cole, however, it means everything. It’s nice to feel like his existence is being recognised for once. It feels something like solidarity.

*

Often students drop, or change courses over the first few weeks. Rhys can’t help but feel a little relieved when he comes to give his lecture on Monday and Friday and sees Cole amongst the students sat before him, like a skinny blonde beacon of hope – that maybe Rhys isn’t so bad at this after all. At first, Cole stands out simply because he’s the only student Rhys has spoken to. When Rhys realises that Cole isn’t about to quit this module; that he’s going to remain listening to Rhys’ nerve-wracked speeches, however, he begins to form a small sort of sense of appreciation for the undergraduate, a sense of gratitude for his not giving up on this module, despite it surely being clear that Rhys has no idea what he’s doing half the time.

He watches Rhys with such attentiveness, too, like he has a genuine interest in what he has to say. Other students stare at their notepads, or talk amongst themselves under their breath, but Cole looks like he’s actually listening to him. Like he actually takes an interest in Rhys’ talks about attachment theory and Bowlby. His gaze is unwavering and captivating; like he’s studying him. Like he’s observing prey. It’s stupid of him to think it, but Rhys can’t help but feel like there is a hunger in Cole’ eyes. Something expectant.

Rhys tries to convey his acknowledgement of him, his appreciation of Cole’s undivided attention, and sometimes Cole recognises these little discreet messages. His eyes light up then, excited, impressed, like he’s flattered that Rhys bothered to remember him.

After the third lecture (wherein Cole had moved closer by about five rows and had bit his lip to resist a smile when Rhys had glanced at him) Rhys had hopped online to the university’s management system and scrolled through lists of modules and registers until he’d found the list of students attending the module he gives lectures for. Little ID photographs in rows next to names and student ID numbers. He’d found Cole’s name, and his cursor had hovered over his picture for a few seconds, debating opening up his personal file, until he thought better of it and clicked the small red ‘X’ at the top right hand corner of the screen instead.

He’s not about to stalk the kid. Even if he’s come to form a strange sort of affection to him, despite only having one conversation with him. No, affection isn’t the right word. That sort of thing is improper, the sort of thing that loses you your research funding and gets you kicked out of universities.

It’s just friendly recognition. That’s all.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s Friday.

Cole flits in and out of consciousness; it’s Friday, he has a lecture today – his alarm screeches at him; he fumbles, bleary eyed, his finger finding the button to shut it up. He can’t let it ring for too long. 6am. Everyone else will be asleep still. He likes to wake up early – he’s not a particularly deep sleeper – and he likes getting onto campus as soon as he can. Cole tries to blink sleep out of his eyes, lying prostrate on his back, duvet only partially covering his body. It’s warm for September: he threw off the loose shirt he sleeps in the night before with a fatigued grunt, and in his sleep he writhed under the blanket before partially kicking it off, so that now his chest and one leg lie, uncovered, in the cool morning air. Now he shivers slightly, though he rather likes the sensation.

On the brink of consciousness, he lies there quietly, waiting for coherent thought to catch up with him, remnants of dreams he can’t quite remember freckling his short term memory, like a lexis on the tip of his tongue. With little bumps peppering his pale skin, and fast-blurring false memories of fanciful dreams of fingers curling around his hip bone, arms around his waist, Cole can _almost_ conjure up an idea of something he’d otherwise not consider if not for the fact that he is half asleep and vulnerable right now. He’ll indulge himself now, though; lying in bed, mouth dry, and aching. In an hour he’ll blush, wide eyed, embarrassed and guilty, but for now he just wants to have a shower.

*

"Who's Cole?"

Rhys is snapped out of his reverie by Adrian's sharp voice. She sounds agitated, slightly incredulous, like she's been holding back saying anything for a long time and can't restrain herself anymore. Like she can't quite believe him. Momentarily lost, Rhys blinks, glances at the screen before him.

He's left the screen on Cole's ID photograph.

"He's a student, yeah? He's one of yours?" She continues, perching on the beat up, blue sofa by his desk, leaning back against the furthest armrest, stretching like a cat. His office is as much her territory as it is his. In that regard, Rhys has no choice. "What, then? Is he being problematic? Is he some little shit?" She laughs, tries to sound nonchalant, even lightly amused, but it comes out defensive. Concerned.

"He's in my Psychology lectures," Rhys says.

"You've been staring at his name and picture for ten minutes." She continues, glancing at the picture. "Scrawny looking kid, what's so special about him?"

Rhys pauses. He hadn't meant to stare. He hadn't even meant to look over class registers. He'd been marking.

"I'd been marking some papers, must’ve got sidetracked… thinking, you know," he says it aloud, trying to convince himself and Adrian alike.

He feels guilty, like he’s been caught doing something deeply wrong. He has no reason to; there’s nothing wrong with checking ID’s of his students (especially in the early weeks of the semester, because there are a lot of names and faces to remember and Rhys doesn’t have Adrian’s near photographic memory for people’s identities.) There’s nothing wrong with getting sidetracked and lost in one’s own thoughts, either.

There’s nothing wrong with these things all happening around the same tall, blonde undergraduate. (Even if Rhys can’t explain why that is. Even if he doesn’t think he wants to know the answer.) "Wynne asked me to look them over-"

"Wynne?" Adrian interrupts him, scoffing. "What are you doing with that old hag?"

Rhys doesn't want to answer that question, he doesn't think he'll ever live it down if he does. Adrian has never liked Wynne, head of medicine.

"Some of the students she is an advisor for covered some psychology in their latest assignment; she referred their papers to me,”

Adrian snorts. “So you decided to stare dreamily at some goggle-eyed undergraduate to help you cope with Wynne’s bullshit?” That sharpness is back in her voice. Rhys refuses to consider why. She’s making assumptions founded on nothing, and he’s not obligated to accommodate them, nor humour her suspicions. “Pfft! It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Rhys leans back in his chair, turns to glance at her, meeting her eyes with a grin on his face. “A ‘goggle-eyed undergraduate’? Adrian! Don’t say such things about yourself.”

*

Cole’s moved a row forward again. He almost didn’t want to; as usual nearly baulked at the last minute like a coward and hid in the shadows. He wanted to. But Rhys feels sort of like a friend, like someone Cole can trust, and he’s appreciative that Rhys bothers to continue to notice him. When Rhys glances in his direction, Cole’s heart does something funny. It’s strangely uplifting to be seen for once, though Cole always thought he was used to being invisible.

He doesn’t know if Rhys is taking note of Cole’s moving forward, or if he’s aware of the significance of it. Cole isn’t sure if Rhys would care. But Cole wants to imagine that he _does_ notice and _does_ care. He wants to imagine that Rhys looks forward to seeing him, like Cole looks forward to seeing Rhys. And Cole knows why he wants to think this – Cole isn’t stupid – but he wilfully pushes those thoughts to one side with a considerable amount of cynicism. There’s no point, he tells himself, because Rhys is a lecturer, and Cole an undergraduate.

Not that Cole would ever try anything. Cole’s not brave enough for that. Cole’s not reckless enough for that.

So every lecture he finds himself ecstatic over Rhys’ tiny nods in his directions, the minute grins aimed at him, aware that he’s pining and aware of the redundancy of such feelings. But he moves a row forward anyway.

This lecture is on dream theory and Sigmund Freud, and Cole feels a surge of ironic embarrassment about it; his cheeks darkening, face growing hot, as Rhys talks (with all that charming, witty passion that he always showcases when talking about his subject) about trains and tunnels. The way Rhys’ eyes light up when he talks about it is almost painful to Cole. He bites his bottom lip hard, and lowers his eyes, staring at his notepad and focusing on taking notes. If Rhys were to smile at him now, Cole isn’t sure he could bear it.

*

Cole gets up stiffly after the lecture, swings his satchel over his shoulder like he’s in a rush, or upset, and races to the door, but Rhys gets there first.

“Can I talk to you?” He says, in a low voice.

Cole looks terrified. His eyes are wide, his mouth agape slightly, he’s still red faced, and Rhys is sure his bottom lip is bleeding, but he feels awkward glancing at the young man’s mouth.

“I’m sorry!” Cole blurts out, and Rhys is confused.

“For what?” He asks, and even puts a hand on Cole’s shoulder, to steady him or to soothe him. Cole freezes. All through the lecture, Cole had been furiously chewing his bottom lip, and bright red in the face, staring at his notebook furiously. He’d looked upset. Rhys had worried. He wondered if anything had happened before the lecture, maybe someone said something to Cole. He was not the most socially adept individual Rhys had met, after all. “Cole,” he adds, in what he hopes is a gentle tone, and Cole stares at him. “I just wanted to see if you were alright, is something wrong? Are you sick?”

Cole blinks, that squeamish expression not leaving his face. Everyone else ignores them, filing out of the hall, perhaps presuming that Cole is getting scolded for failing to meet a deadline or that he is asking for academic advice. Soon it’ll be just the two of them, and Rhys wonders if that will make Cole relax.

“I- No. Yes.” Cole stutters, tongue-tied, uncertain. “I’m sorry, I have to go!” Shying away from Rhys’ hand like it burns him, he darts away, with a surprising degree of gentleness, and turns, fleeing from the hall, as if desperate to escape Rhys.

Rhys feels no less concerned for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i figured rhys’ being a spirit medium and studying spirits and the fade etc. in relation to psychology would translate to dream theory etc. because when you dream you visit the fade etc. (but predominantly he takes interest in mental disorders) so that’s partially why he’s discussing that in this chapter. also because freud’s theories about dreams are… fitting. for cole’s first pov section in this chapter. if you don’t get the reference i recommend looking it up ;)


	3. Chapter 3

On the top floor of the campus library, in the far right corner opposite the stairs, is a small alcove of a study space, obscured slightly by wooden room dividers covered in graffiti, with names and symbols scratched into the surface. It faces the wall, with one desk with chairs sat around it, and it's difficult to see into it unless you sit at the study space parallel to it in the other corner. Cole tucks himself away after his talk with Rhys there, and stays there for an hour. He eats a roll, and flicks through books he's picked off the shelf at random. He talks to no one.

Mentally, he berates himself. That was his opportunity to talk to Rhys: to prove that he appreciated that he had taken the time to make a note of him, and remember him. His chance to get to know more about him. Rhys had wanted to talk to him, had sought him out especially, and Cole had pushed him away. The first time someone had willingly, positively recognised Cole’s presence and he had shunned them.

Cole is a solitary individual; never fitting in well with others, and always too awkward and shy to make any effort to remedy that. He always said the wrong thing, asked the wrong questions, then flinched and shied away and bit his lip, expecting a raised fist, or expecting to be ignored. Rhys made the effort to continually acknowledge Cole’s existence, and he had latched onto that desperately. And, being so new so such a feeling, it appeared that he had become almost ravenous in his need for Rhys to accept him; he didn’t want Rhys to simply glance at him anymore, he wanted him to touch him.

He’d been taken by surprise, startled and embarrassed and guilty, like Rhys _knew_ what was going through Cole’s head. Cole hadn’t meant to dream about his professor. He didn’t even realise he felt that way about Rhys until this morning. And then Rhys had decided to talk about dream theory and repressed desires, and Cole had felt so mortified he wanted to die. Every time Rhys’ eyes drifted across the corner of the room where Cole sat, Cole had felt his stomach fill with dread.

When Rhys had put a hand on his shoulder, Cole thought his heart might burst, that he might set alight from embarrassment: he’d wanted to curl up into Rhys’ outstretched arm, wanted to shrink down and let Rhys envelop him. Instead he ran away, desperate and affection-starved, feeling something like a kicked puppy.

His heart does an odd backflip when Rhys appears, when he sits at the opposite study table. Of course. Rhys doesn't glance up. Here, in the safety of the library, Cole maintains his anonymity, his invisibility, tucked behind a wooden divider that keeps him somewhat out of sight. From here, Cole watches, curious.

Rhys sits, checks his phone and frowns, before setting to his studies. Coles own reading is forgotten.

*

Whenever Rhys studies in the library, he always works in the exact same spot.

This becomes a regular occurrence: Rhys never notices Cole, but Cole always notices Rhys, without fail. Rhys doesn’t often come to the library, and he doesn’t usually stay that long, but Rhys seems to like his privacy as much as Cole does, because he tucks himself away in the same study alcove upon every visit to the library, without fail. He likes to fiddle with his pen between his fingers as he reads, leaving trails of blue ink smeared across his fingers and the soft looking palm of his hand. Sometimes he chews his pen, holds it like a cigarette as he reads something that he doesn't first understand.

Cole likes to watch him, but mostly he simply sits across the room hoping Rhys won't notice him.

*

Rhys spies Cole a week after that rather unproductive attempt to help Cole. He wonders if he had offended Cole, but otherwise tries not to take Coles lack of communication with him as a slight. He barely knows him, only knows that he’s slightly awkward and jittery, that nobody seems to talk to him, and that since they spoke before that first lecture, Cole has progressively moved closer and closer to the front of the room, with wide eyes. Rhys has no reason to imagine that Cole running from him was a personal slight; more likely it seemed that Cole was sick or upset over something else. The fact that it was most likely nothing personal does not stop Rhys from worrying. Cole seems like an introverted young man, and Rhys is both concerned and intrigued by him. He isn’t the conventional sort of student Rhys saw every day.

And Rhys sees loners and weird kids… all the time… he’s pretty sure he technically qualified as one himself, when he was an undergraduate. Adrian _definitely_ did. But Cole is different; he isn’t quirky-weird, or uncool-lonely, but something a little darker than that. Like something is wrong. The way he shies away, panicked, from social interaction, does not sit well with Rhys. Nor does the near manic look in his eye when he notices Rhys glance his way. Rhys knows enough about symptoms like that to feel justified in his being concerned.

Cole always sits in his little study cubicle, eyelids heavy like he's not getting enough sleep, and a pout on his face. He eats (he’s not allowed to have food in here, but he is so skinny that Rhys is not about to tattle on him.) He stares at his books but makes no notes; Rhys isn't sure if that’s down to obstinacy or a lack of comprehension. Rhys doesn’t _stare_ at Cole. He glances up at him once or twice when he’s around. But he’s intrigued and worried so every now and then he casts a glance towards him. Sometimes he considers approaching him, talking to him, but Cole reacted so badly last time, Rhys isn’t sure what to expect if he were to try again.

*

Rhys' phone vibrates loudly, and he stretches, cracking knuckles in his fingers before picking up the device, the corners of his lips curled upwards in a smile that doesn't meet his eyes. He tucks the phone into his pocket, a tired yawn escaping his lips, before he begins sorting his papers, his books, packing them away.

Cole doesn't say anything, doesn't draw attention to himself, as Rhys gets up, shrugs on his jacket lazily with fumbling, ink stained fingers. They are always stained with ink, Cole has learned.

Rhys leaves soundlessly, and Cole is left alone with his thoughts.

Rhys had been watching him. Cole had noticed and blushed when he did so. He’d glanced up to see Rhys’ eyes on him, and his head had shot back down instantly, staring instead at the book in front of him. He doesn’t know how many times Rhys has looked his way, but now he’s embarrassed. He doesn’t know why Rhys would watch him – maybe he’s spotted Cole staring at him. The thought fills Cole with dread. He wants to go and talk to Rhys – he still berates himself for wasting the opportunity last week to talk to him – maybe apologise for bothering him. Cole isn’t entire sure what exactly he’s done wrong, but he feels like it’s his fault anyway. That something isn’t right and it’s because of him.

It's nearly closing time, and Cole's stomach keens. Putting down his pen (that he had been drawing rabbits with) he gets up, stretches his legs, and moves to the shelves he sees Rhys frequent, running his index finger down their spines as he saw Rhys do.

He glances at the titles. It's all psychology, and beyond his fragmented knowledge, of course. Then he sees it.

Rhys’ book.


	4. Chapter 4

Rhys has better things to do with his time than monitor the location of the sole copy of his book in the university library, he swears. But when the librarian (a sardonic younger man called Dorian who spends half his time working on his PhD at home, and the other half working on his PhD at the ‘C’ shaped desk on the first floor of the campus library) smirks at him and exclaims how _“finally someone’s taken an interest in your life’s work!”_ – or words to that effect – Rhys does admittedly rush up to the top floor to check. Sure enough, his book has been checked out.

It shouldn’t make him so giddy: this isn’t the first time the book has been checked out, after all, contrary to whatever Dorian says. But every time it happens, he feels a surge of pride. He remembers publishing it, remembers all the times people told him it was overambitious, or how it wasn’t suitable to academic standards. Rhys is proud of his book. Rhys is proud that someone has taken the time to read it. And he’s fairly certain he knows who checked it out.

*

Cole checks the book out of the library and takes it home with him. It feels conspiratorial. Like a stolen fragment of Rhys. Something personal and special, sat there alone and vulnerable. Cole blushes with embarrassment, walking home alone, at his taking it. He's been too quick to cast his affection upon Rhys, he knows this. And yet, he couldn’t let it sit there, couldn’t bear the thought of somebody else taking it when he had the opportunity. He's quick to love, touch starved and needy.

When Cole flips open the book the first page, the glossy inside introduction has a picture of Rhys on it. He looks younger here, no slight flecks of grey to be seen around his hairline. Though Rhys doesn't look that much older now - late thirties at most, Cole would estimate. The picture is one of those awkward black and white ones, Rhys sat in front of a bookshelf, smiling serenely at something just to the left of the camera lens. It fills Cole with a smug sense of pride that he can tell that the smile in the photo isn't genuine. Cole knows because Cole has seen proper smiles directed at him. He's greedily coveted them, soaking up the attention he so rarely gets.

That night he sits, cross-legged, in bed. Duvet over his lap, knees making pointy little tents. He reads about Rhys' studies into schizoaffective disorder, though he can't claim to understand all of it. He likes Rhys' prose, though. His wit shines through. He doesn’t write like an academic – his writing isn’t stifled behind pretentious scholarly detachment. Cole is sure that that’s counterproductive for an academic text, but he doesn’t care: Rhys’ prose reads like the way Rhys’ talks. It’s charming, jovial, and sarcastic. It’s comforting, Cole thinks. It’s a small little piece of Rhys, this lecturer who bothered to notice him, who makes Cole nervous and excited at the same time.

There’s scuffling downstairs. Banging. Glass breaks. Cole turns off all the lights save the nightlight by his bed, and closes the blinds. Curling up so the tops of his thighs are pressed uncomfortably to his chest, so that his chin can rest on his bony knees, his duvet sandwiched between his legs, he grips Rhys’ book in his fingers, and reads about disorganized speech and thinking as he imagines the words in Rhys’ voice.

*

The next time they meet is once again on the top floor of in the campus library. It’s 2am and Rhys has been stuck there doing stupid amounts of research for about an hour and a half, whilst Adrian continuously texts him asking where he is. He doesn’t have the heart to say that he just wanted to get away from the house, and from her, for a few hours. Adrian is easily his closest friend, but that doesn’t count for much when Rhys, generally, doesn’t have many close friends, and Adrian is _exhausting_ to live with. That and the fact that Rhys has always been a night owl. Tonight is not the first time he has slipped away from the house he shares with the younger woman, driven to campus and thrown himself into his research (that he admittedly neglects slightly during the day).

He’s sprawled over a desk, papers scattered everywhere, when he hears someone approach. He glances to his left, lazily, and notices a tall, lanky student shuffling – shoulders hunched over – across the room, head bowed low and face obscured by a combination of long blonde hair, and the too-large hoodie he wears. Rhys doesn’t need to see their face to know who it is.

There aren’t many students in the library at this time, of course, it’s too early in the year for students to start panicking and revising into the early hours of the morning. So, Cole’s presence is striking, as is his timid, antisocial behaviour. The hunched shoulders, the bowed head; he’s trying to avoid attracting attention - and given Cole’s track record for odd behaviour, and worrying Rhys, Rhys finds himself unable to simply ignore the younger student, whose developed a habit for triggering alarm bells to ring at the back of Rhys’ mind. Rhys may be socially awkward, but he’s not apathetic, and he does want to help the younger man. The alternative, to ignore him when something could be wrong, is a repulsive notion to him (and oh Maker, he’s turning into his mother).

For a moment, Rhys can only blink stupidly at the man awkwardly shuffling towards the room divider that obscures the table he always sits at from view, tucked away in the corner opposite Rhys. That is before social skills kick in and he manages to find words to say.

“Hey,” his voice is soft, tentative, but he still manages to startle Cole, who jumps, and stands, rigidly, before the older man. “Cole? You okay?” His lips curl into a small smile, and Cole seems to relax visible: enough so to lift a pale hand and tug his hood down, revealing his face. Rhys isn’t as surprised as he would like to be at the sight of tear tracks streaming down Cole’s cheeks, but he doesn’t comment on them. Cole’s exhausted, paler than usual with bloodshot eyes (and the fact that he was crying doesn’t help) and dark circles under his eyes. His hair is messy, his clothes ill-fitting. Cole has always been rather scruffy, but this looks like he’s just hastily shoved clothes on and run to the campus. He’s so pale that he’s almost translucent, all pale skin and hair lighter than duck-fluff. For a second, the undergraduate is silent, as if mulling things over in his head, and then, when he apparently comes to a conclusion, he opens his mouth.

“I… I didn’t mean to bother you, sorry!” He says. Rhys forces a chuckle, trying to act nonchalant, at first, and then notices how _frightened_ the other looks. His eyes are wide, as if he’s afraid and ready to bolt. He nervously fidgets with the hem of his sleeve, one fist brought to his chest like he’s expecting a fight, as if he’s petrified by the very thought of talking to Rhys. That shuts Rhys up pretty quickly.

“You didn’t bother me at all,” he says, and pauses, awkwardly. “There’s loads of space here, you know. I don’t mind sharing.”

Almost as soon as the words are past Rhys’ lips, the other has perched himself on a seat opposite Rhys, hesitant to take up any room. “I’m sorry I didn’t say hello to you during your lecture,” he’s saying. Rhys says nothing. “The first one. And when you stopped me last time. I’m sorry.”

Rhys doesn’t expect the other to mention it, and nearly shrugs it off. The younger man pauses, bag in his lap. Slowly he pulls a familiar book out of his bag, avoiding Rhys’ gaze as he does so, face pink. Rhys says nothing, bites back a grin (though he’s sure he’s smiling, just a little bit). Cole was the one to check out Rhys’ book, just as Rhys anticipated. Mulling over that thought, Rhys realises that Cole expects a response. He grins. “It’s fine, Cole!” He glances over at the blonde from across Rhys’ paper impersonation of the Frostbacks: Cole is  perched at the end of the table they’ve come to share, hunched over his book, clutching tightly like it’s a shield, and staring at it with an unwavering gaze (Rhys is almost certain that Cole never blinks). Rhys’ concern is not abated. “Cole, whatever happened, you can talk to me about it, you know?” Cole’s grip tightens, his knuckles white, but he doesn’t look up or say anything. His cheeks are pink, eyebrows furrowed. Rhys tries again: “Cole, I’ll help you. I promise.”

Cole looks up. He’s not crying, he’s not angry, he’s not anything. He’s just withdrawn. He’s not going to tell Rhys anything.

Rhys changes tactics. “If you really need a place to study, my office is always open to you. Bring books, whatever you need! I have a pretty comfy sofa you’re free to use!”

Cole nods. Cole smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo. i got distracted by real life stuff. sorry!!


	5. Chapter 5

Cole arrives home to a silent house. He prefers it that way: he hates loud noises, and silence suggests everything’s over. He shuts the door behind him as quietly as he can, then grips his bag in his hands as he creeps up the stairs to his room. He can hear snoring from the living room: his father passed out on the sofa, most likely, but Cole doesn’t want to linger and check in case he wakes him. He carries on up the steps, quiet on the landing as he passes his parents’ bedroom. If his father is downstairs, his mother is probably in the bedroom, and he doesn’t want to disturb her. Onwards, he reaches the door to his sisters room, and he makes no attempt to try to resist the urge to peek in, door creaking slightly as he glances around the small room. Bunny’s room faces the tiny garden, and during the summer it’s swelteringly hot and in the winter it’s bitterly cold. Tonight it’s mild, and very, very dark, and he looks around, seeing nothing, as he scans the room.

She’s behind him, on the landing, staring at him with wide eyes, and tear-streaked cheeks and she looks afraid and relieved and furious all at the same time.

“You left me!” she whispers, shrilly, and Cole instinctively shoves a hand over her small pink mouth when she opens it again. He feels awful, and for several seconds they hover on the landing uneasily, his tall frame towering over hers as he presses his hand to her lips. Her eyes shut momentarily, and she shudders. He can feel her trembling. Slowly, he lowers his hand, and she sniffs, as if she were about to cry.

“You left me by myself! I went looking for you, and you were gone!” She’s quieter now, but Cole grabs her arm and tugs her inelegantly into his room down the hall, and shuts the door as gently as his clumsy, nerve-tingling limbs will allow. The sheets on his bed are a mess where Bunny had curled up during the night, and Cole knows he is the worst person in the world. He loves his sister very much, but when she needed him, he forgot her.

“I’m sorry, Bunny,” he’s whispering, beside himself, and they’re tangled up in each other’s arms and Bunny’s tiny frail hands are making fists and they’re shaking. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t – I didn’t think!”

“You…” Bunny’s saying, under her breath, sleepily. She yawns. She’s crying. “You left me. I was all by myself. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair. I hate you!”   

*

Rhys is exhausted from researching until 2am in the library, and then spending another hour pretending to whilst fretting over Cole (who remained hunched over his book, withdrawn and silent, the entire time). He’s dishevelled and hasn’t showered, feeling lethargic as he slouches in loose fitting slacks in the kitchen of his house, laptop in front of him.

He’d wanted to do some checking around, see if there was anything he could find about Cole’s situation online – he doesn’t know Cole that well, the kid is a damn mystery: he’s stubborn and shy and refuses to open up long enough for Rhys to get the truth out of him - but Rhys knows enough to be concerned. Cole is withdrawn, easily startled and downright _scared_ whenever people approach him, not coping well with people offering him help. There’s also the worrying fact that Cole is incredibly thin, and his clothes (and bag, for that matter,) were consistently scruffy, though they weren’t especially _dirty_.

Rhys isn’t a psychiatrist, or a social worker: he’s not going to try to claim he knows what he’s dealing with here. But he’s not stupid, either, and he’s working on a PhD in psychology and has done enough general research to suspect something, at the very least. So he finds himself at the breakfast counter in his kitchen, mug of coffee to his right and laptop in front of him.

He starts by finding Cole’s online student record from the university server, which isn’t hard seeing as he’s one of Rhys’ students. There isn’t anything indicative to be found: Cole is allergic to shellfish, and lives off campus. Opening a tab to Google, he looks up Cole’s full name, and scrolls through the entries. There’s a Cole in Orlais who invented some pointless contraption for opening cans, and a load of other useless trivial information, but nothing relating to the man Rhys is looking for.

Next he tries searching for his family, checking contact details from Cole’s online record. He scans it for details on Cole’s family history but nothing stands out. What Rhys can denote is that none of the names on Cole’s online student record, those of his family and emergency contacts, seem to have any online accounts with social media or the like, which is odd, but not evidence, and hell, Rhys isn’t even sure he’s looking for evidence. Right now, he’s just curious. Concerned about a student of his. For all Rhys knows, last night, Cole could have just broken up with his girlfriend and been pretty torn up over it, or something. There’s no need to get so invested in a potentially superfluous incident.

Closing the laptop, he reminds himself to not get too invested: this isn’t some case for him to investigate. Cole is not a research project. Rhys is worried about the young man, and wants to help – wants to look out for him; he doesn’t want to overwhelm Cole or make him feel uncomfortable, like some lab rat under scrutiny. He’s not dismissing Cole, he tells himself, he’s just refraining from getting too invested in trying to work Cole out, trying to turn Cole’s problems into some puzzle to be solved. It’s not fair on Cole to do that to him, especially without any approval from the younger man, so Rhys decides to keep from prying too deep into his affairs.

He leans back slightly on his stool, exhales loudly, then picks up the mug of coffee to take a sip. Adrian makes better coffee than he does.

“Rhys! I’m home!” Speak of the devil.

Rhys has been living with Adrian for two years now. It was a slightly awkward arrangement at first, there’d been a slightly clumsy attempt at a relationship, then he’d graduated a year before she had, and after a short while (and numerous jokes about Rhys being a lecherous old man creeping on an undergraduate, which Rhys was now finding to have unintentionally become more relevant than he was comfortable with admitting) they’d broken up and gone their separate ways to pursue Masters degrees. Adrian had gotten a boring job as a boring secretary in a boring set of offices near to the campus to fund her PhD, and Rhys became a lecturer and published academic. They were close friends, of sorts, with the slightly strained history of being a couple once upon a time (and Rhys suspected something about that embarrassed Adrian, because she hated it being brought up).

“Good morning, Adrian!” he calls, not bothering to ask where she’s been – her schedule has always been hectic, and Rhys is not sure if it’s work or social based.

She scoffs, loudly, from somewhere behind him. He hears the clatter of her putting down her purse and keys on the kitchen counter, then she’s shuffling behind him, and flicking his ear, as he pushes the closed laptop away from him. “Morning?” She snorts, picking up his half-empty mug of lukewarm coffee and dumping its contents down the sink, rinsing it absent-mindedly. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, Rhys!” There’s laughter in her voice as she says it, but she sounds gentler than usual, like he’s fragile.

His watch doesn’t work, he realises.

“You alright?” She asks, and he turns to look at her. Her messy red hair is scraped back in a bun, face fresh of any make-up. She’s very pretty – he’s always thought so. “You’re all – I don’t know – distracted? You look dreadful,” she pulls up a chair at the rickety kitchen table he’s sat at, and, resting her chin on her hand, gazes at him curiously. “You got back at like… half three or something this morning. Which isn’t that unusual for you, but you look exhausted. Have you even showered?” She’s wrinkling her nose at him, and he shrugs noncommittally.

“I… got caught up last night at the library. Didn’t mean to,” he says. Adrian knows Cole exists, and she knows that Rhys has been rather attentive of him recently: as far as she’s aware, however, Cole is just some kid who is giving him grief – not handing in papers, and the like. He doesn’t want to involve her just yet – there’s hardly anything going on outside of Rhys being overly suspicious. Cole is a strange, endearing kid, but Rhys has no evidence to back up his curiosity, so there’s nothing to tell Adrian.

Adrian is still for several seconds, her face blank. He’s upset her, he thinks wearily. “You’re hiding something from me,” she says, blankly. She knows he’s lying. “That’s alright,” she says, brushing his excuses aside when he opens his mouth to say something. “Really, its fine,” she says, distantly. “It’s obviously none of my business. I’m just concerned, is all.”

He feels bad, though he knows he shouldn’t. He’s not trying to hurt Adrian. But at its core, his concern over a student’s wellbeing is such a simple thing, that he feels ashamed for excluding her. Still, Rhys knows it’d sound stupid if he told her, so he keeps his mouth shut. Adrian says nothing for a while – looks at her bitten-down nails instead of him – but then perks up suddenly.

“Let’s go out for lunch!” She crows, eyes twinkling. “We never go out anymore, and you’ve been so preoccupied recently with research and work. I’ll pay, you just… go and take a quick shower, or something. We can go to the deli down the road, or something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw if u want to post anything abt this on tumblr and want me to see it, tag either 'don't teach you anything worth knowing' or 'dtyawk' (the latter is the one i personally use).


	6. Chapter 6

There’s a damn good deli just around the corner from Rhy’s house. It’s obviously targeting students as its customers, looking just a little too ‘cool’ and ‘youthful’ for Rhys and Adrian – with its deep purple coloured walls, and the mosaic of mirror fragments decorating them, light reflecting off them onto the ceiling like sparkling ripples of water. Large glossy signs are propped up behind the glass counter indicating what’s available, but it doesn’t matter, Rhys always orders the same thing: tuna and sweetcorn in a baguette. When they were dating, he and Adrian would share it, half and half each, but now Adrian’s gone off tuna and always orders something different each time they come here.

This time it’s chicken and avocado in mayo in ciabatta bread.

Rhys just orders the usual.

They sit at their usual table, and there’s something striking, to Rhys, about how nostalgic coming here is. They come here often, but it’s become a routine, and one that is packed with memories. He runs a hand through his hair, still damp from the shower he had before leaving. Adrian smiles as she settles in her chair opposite him.

She’s been tense lately, and he’s not helping. He didn’t mean to hurt her feelings, but he also doesn’t want to alarm her with ideas of him creeping on undergraduates. He’s still trying to convince himself that what he’s doing is morally advisable, because he’s concerned, but how he’s going about dealing with that concern borders on being inappropriate. If he told Adrian, he could only imagine how she might react, and he was certain that she wouldn’t approve.

Quite frankly, he would not blame her.

They chat about a myriad of things: about how the prices are going up in the on-campus café, about the drama escalating between the astrophysics professors (“Vivienne was absolutely furious when _Morrigan_ got promoted to head of the department over her!” Adrian cackles as she picks up her coffee mug.) Adrian makes a slightly tactless joke about Wynne being a ‘senile old bag’, and Rhys doesn’t correct her. They talk about the weather and about sports and about university fees, about which Adrian feels particularly strongly about.

It’s comforting to think how easy conversation is between them, despite everything. Regardless of their awkward history, Adrian is still Rhys’ best friend.

He wishes he could trust her, he wants to be able to approach her and talk to her about things. But things are still awkward and tense and he doesn’t know _how_ to approach her anymore.

Not about things like Rhys’ accidental obsession with an undergraduate student.

“How is lecturing going, then?” She’s saying, and Rhys shoves his sandwich in his mouth in an attempt to avoid answering for several seconds.

“About as well as can be expected,” he eventually replies, shrugging with a lopsided grin on his face. Adrian raises her eyebrows at him, corners of her lips curling upwards as if she’s amused.

“Oh, shut it!” She smirks, “you’re a big boy, you can cope with a few undergraduates. You’re hardly more mature than them, anyway.”

“Charming, Adrian.”

“I try! Besides, they can’t all be that bad.”

“You’d be surprised,” he’s saying, but doubt plagues his mind: he never said anything about undergraduates to her, and yet she brought them up. Adrian is clever, and more than anything else, she is stubborn, and he thinks that she might be trying to work out what he was lying to her about earlier. He thinks that perhaps she knows, or at least, has a strong suspicion, as to what is going on with Cole. She's always had a good memory for people. Maybe he is just being paranoid, he tries to tell himself, as he swallows another mouthful.

*

Rhys’ office is small, and poorly-lit. It has the sterile, overly bright lighting of cheap industrial bulbs, and a window facing away from the sun, casting shadows in all the wrong places. It smells faintly of damp, overwhelmed just so by the smell of cigarette smoke. Cole remembers that Rhys smokes, and once again he is caught imagining smoking a cigarette – he debates asking Rhys for one, but he is too embarrassed to do so.

Rhys welcomes him in politely enough, refraining from commenting too much on Cole’s mood the previous night. For this, Cole is grateful. He’d spent a long time debating whether or not he should actually take Rhys up on his offer. It would be rude to decline, but seeing him made him nervous; made Cole feel like he was being a nuisance, even if Rhys had invited him willingly.

But he wanted to visit Rhys, it made a difference from haunting the library, or the campus, and Rhys actually acknowledged and appreciated him! So eventually, Cole gave in and sought out Rhys’ office.

Rhys seems slightly surprised to see him, or perhaps nervous. There is something slightly awkward in the air as Cole enters, so he looks around rather than looking at Rhys.

The walls are plain red brick – a cork board covered in photos, multi coloured post-it notes and assorted sheets of paper decorates one side. A movie poster is pinned up beside it, but it’s old and faded so that it’s taken on a grey tinge, and the yellows have, in parts, turned to washed-out grey-blue. The colour of Cole’s eyes.

On the other side is a wide bookshelf, with coppery coloured rings staining the shelves where coffee mugs once sat. Cole can see a copy of Rhys’ book on one of the shelves. It looks like it’s never been opened.

Cole wonders if he should tell Rhys that he read his book. He thinks that Rhys might think him a bit strange if he did. Nobody else in his class read Rhys’ book, Cole is sure.

There is a rather wide window on the furthest wall, at which Rhys has his desk, covered in an organised mess of research and papers. He has a large collection of pens scattered about, and in the centre of his desk is his computer. A small Lego figurine is tacked onto the top of the screen. It has a felt cape and stick in its hand, a stiff plastic wizard’s hat covered in silver moons clipped onto its bulbous yellow head.

Cole used to be obsessed with Lego when he was small. His neighbour once gave him an old castle set full of figurines. He never had any wizards.

There are two chairs in the office: one is a slightly tatty black office chair with worn leather. It looks incredibly comfortable. The second is a plain plastic stool, with a green seat. It’s propped under the desk, out of the way, out of use.

Rhys is quiet as he settles at his desk. Cole expects him to turn and resume working, but he doesn’t. He’s waiting for Cole to say something, do something. Cole is waiting for permission – he doesn’t really know what for, he just feels uncomfortable, invasive.

Rhys makes a lazy gesture with his hands, a sort of half-hearted wave.

“Please, make yourself comfortable!”

By the door is a blue sofa, with depressed cushions where the springs have given up on life at some point. It is there where Cole decides to sit, near the bookshelf and by the corner, tucked out of the way and near enough the door to escape if he feels he’s intruding too much on Rhys’ time. He places his bag on the floor by his feet, and withdraws his notebook, glancing up at Rhys awkwardly. Everything in here is slightly worn, slightly old and broken and messy. There’s a history to the office, it’s been well-used, by more people than just Rhys, and Cole is an intruder.

And yet, Rhys invited him here of his own free will.

(Because Cole had run away from home, crying. He’s mortified. He’s embarrassed. He flushes, and shivers, simultaneously.)

But still, Cole has a place here. He’s allowed to be here. As long as he doesn’t upset Rhys. He has to keep Rhys happy. Which would be much easier if he knew what Rhys _wanted_. But Rhys is confusing: he’s concerned about Cole and he laughs at his own jokes (he always smiles at his own puns in his lectures and Cole smiles too, because they’re funny and because he wants Rhys to like him). Rhys is handsome and older and he smokes and he takes an interest in Cole when everyone else ignores him.

And Cole is allowed to do work in his office with him. Cole is not oblivious to how fortunate he is.

*

Rhys is grading papers. Cole is quietly reading in the back. Every now and then, Cole pauses, delicately presses his bookmark (an old Christmas card) between the pages, and starts jotting things down in his notepad. He has awful handwriting.

It’s surprisingly comfortable, though he knows Cole feels a little awkward and shy.

He offered Cole a cup of coffee earlier, and Cole looked so startled that Rhys was afraid he might cry. He took that as a no to the coffee. But then Cole said yes to the offer, and Rhys had to laugh because the young man was full of surprises and because he desperately wanted Cole to feel safe.

Nevertheless, he finds this arrangement rather comfortable to settle into. He realises it’s risky but figures Cole’s needs are more important. He doesn’t want to pry, but he’s fiercely curious about Cole’s situation. At the very least, he could provide a bit of sanctuary for the younger man.

He’s musing on this thought as there is a low buzzing sound. He stares at his desk, confused, for a moment, and behind him, he thinks he hears Cole gasp as he jumps slightly. Which is… an odd reaction to a text alert.

Rhys blinks. His mobile is sat next to his keyboard, and he reaches for it to open up the new message.

_We need to talk, Rhys. x_

Rhys grits his teeth. He can feel his heart dropping into his stomach, and he’s gone cold. Slackening his jaw, he presses his lips together, trying to resist reacting visibly too much. He tries to turn his pursed lips into a smile, because he refuses to admit to himself the truth: that he’s fucked.

 He had hoped to avoid this conversation, but he supposes it was inevitable. He had been naïve to pretend otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was so excited to post this chapter, let me tell you!!


	7. Chapter 7

Wynne is a very composed woman. Rhys is certain that she’s lived her entire life compartmentalising everything by order of value to her. Whilst she’s never been especially fashionable or beautiful, she’s always been very _smart_ looking – nice clothes, neat hairstyle, heels never too high or too risqué. She never wears jewellery. She wears light makeup and delicate perfume, and always has her handbag sat on her lap with clasped hands resting on top of it by the slightly worn handle. She almost always carries a book with her, wherever she goes, and Rhys has never known her to not carry an embroidered handkerchief and some strawberry flavoured sweets with her in her purse. Wynne isn’t a conventional old lady, but some habits die hard.

There’s something comforting about knowing that, despite everything else, through the years, Wynne hasn’t changed.

She is seated by the window at the furthest corner of the café from the door when Rhys enters. There’s a little chime on the door as he opens it, and she glances across to where he’s standing, tugging off his coat, at the entrance. She smiles, bringing the wrinkles around her eyes into focus, and stands to greet him as he approaches.

 _Conventionally_ , a mother would greet her son with a hug, maybe a kiss on the cheek, then would laugh and chatter and dab a tissue at his face, to wipe at the lipstick mark she’d left behind. Instead, Wynne and Rhys shake hands as stiffly and coldly as they always do, maintaining their distance and keeping the table between them like a safety barrier.

Wynne isn’t incapable of warmth: she just only bothers to attempt it when it suits her.

Rhys remembers when he was younger and Wynne – well, Wynne was never a _fantastic_ mother, but she wasn’t always this manipulative and self-serving. He lived with his father, and she visited him every second weekend, and always took him out on little trips. There are whole scrapbooks somewhere filled with photos of him at the zoo, at the beach, at the local park. And then there were problems, and she stopped coming as regularly, and then she stopped coming at all, even when his father asked her to, and nobody really knew where she went or what she did, but there was a very large portion of his life where Wynne was not around.

And, frankly, Rhys is not bothered by that as much as he is bothered by Wynne suddenly re-appearing, years later, expecting him to accept her in his life once more. There was never any apology, never any explanation: Wynne turned up at the university, a lecturer, and proceeded to force herself into Rhys’ life. Maybe she is trying, but to Rhys, that’s not enough.

“You’ve gained weight.” She says.

He doesn’t have anything to say to that.

He settles with “OK.”

They don’t normally see each other. Wynne emails or texts him on occasion, sends him things when she thinks of him. Occasionally she forwards work to him, asking for his feedback, and he sulks, but he obliges. Wynne says their distance is down to busy schedules, Rhys _knows_ it’s because he avoids her like she’s the plague.

She doesn’t often reach out to try to approach him, because she doesn’t often feel compelled to play the role of mother.

Rhys does not doubt that the woman who used to take him to the zoo loved him, but he thinks that perhaps Wynne loved the idea of having a child more than the reality. When caring for Rhys stopped being fun, when she became aware of the responsibility of it – the expenses, the demands on her time and energy, the personal sacrifices she had to make – she stopped trying. And then, when Rhys was no longer a small boy, but an adult, she decided to try again, because Rhys wouldn’t need her unless she wanted to be needed.

There’s something about being handled like an accessory for undeserved self-gratification that has always gotten under his skin.

“Thank you for looking over those papers I sent you, by the way!” She’s chirping, her lips still curled upwards. “Your comments were so…” fumbling, fiddling with her purse, like she’s nervous and trying to occupy herself with something other than this awkward conversation (that she organised in the first place, Rhys thinks bitterly.) “Illuminating.”

Rhys shrugs the comment off, and doesn’t order anything when a waitress hovers by them trying to serve him. _Get to the point_ , he thinks to himself; he repeats it like a mantra, focusing on it like a defence mechanism. Wynne is still fiddling with her purse.

“What do you want, Wynne?”

To the point.

Wynne pauses, staring at him. A look of anger flashes across her features, like she can’t believe his audacity, his bluntness. Wynne isn’t a stupid woman, she knows that they’re simply playing at happy families, but sometimes Rhys thinks that she falls for her own bullshit. Sometimes Rhys is reminded just how desperate Wynne really is to feel like a mother, to feel like she’s in control. She’s brought him here for a reason, and he wants to know why.

*

Cole is already in his office when Rhys returns from his meeting with Wynne. He's curled up in one corner of Rhys' old couch like he's trying to avoid taking up too much space, but he greets Rhys and his voice doesn't falter this time. Rhys takes this as a small victory. He knows Cole turning up and letting himself in is rather presumptuous (and Cole's apparent ability to pick locks is questionable - if nothing else) but he's somewhat comforted by Cole's presence.

Rhys feels drained otherwise, worn down by meeting with Wynne - he always does. Her attempt to guilt him into financially support her is an especially painful thought: Rhys likes to think he is a good man, but pride and bitterness and anger prevents him from giving Wynne what she wants. True, she is not evil, and at one point he had loved her: probably the reason he feels so offended now was because he still does, to some extent. But Rhys cannot bring himself to let her win.

"What is wrong?" Cole asks, and Rhys looks at him for a moment, inspecting him.

Adrian is the only one who knows about his and Wynne's fractious relationship. She's always been the only one he's turned to. Cole is an anomaly, a wild card, but Rhys trusts him. He has to, really, since he's allowed Cole to occupy such a significant role in his life, defying protocol. They hadn't technically done anything wrong until Cole effectively broke into his office just to hang out with him. Rhys finds it endearing, but he's not stupid.

On edge, he can’t help but snap. “ _What’s wrong_? What’s wrong is _you_ breaking into my office! Can’t I have a break?” He exhales sharply, and sits at his desk wordlessly, avoiding looking at Cole. He regrets lashing out immediately. Behind him, Cole is silent. Rhys closes his eyes, and puts his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly. “I shouldn’t snap at you. I didn’t mean that. I just-”

“You’ve had a bad day.” Cole interrupts, automatically. “It’s alright. I understand.”

“No, it’s really not alright, Cole,” Rhys’ suspicions about Cole’s home life are enough to make him feel terrible about snapping. Cole is a good kid: awkward, and difficult to get a straight answer out of, but he’s also compassionate, and very clever, and he’s damn perceptive.

Rhys has had nobody but Adrian to trust and confide in for so long, he really can’t resist Cole’s attempts at comforting him.

“I really am sorry; let me make it up to you.”

He turns, raising his head to look at Cole, who is staring at him with wide eyes. Before, Rhys would interpret that as fear, but now he knows better – Cole is awkward and surprised but he’s not afraid of Rhys. Of that much, Rhys is certain.

“Rhys, it’s fine. I understand, I just want to help,”

Rhys sighs, a smile appearing on his face against his will. “You’re a good man, Cole. Just… remember that I owe you," he turns back to his desk to scribbles his number on a yellow post-it note, just in case Cole needs it, and he hands it over to Cole who takes it with a reverent look in his eyes, "I want to make up for snapping at you. Remember that, if you need my help.”

“You’ve already helped me, more than anyone else – now it’s my turn to help you.”

Rhys softens. He hasn’t had someone to confide him outside of Adrian for a long time. A lot of his old friends have moved away, and started families of their own, and whilst he is not antisocial or unpopular, he’s never been able to let people in other than Adrian. Cole openly offering to help, to be confided in, is a relief he didn’t know he needed until the suggestion was presented to him. He gets up, and moves to sit beside Cole on the couch. Cole shifts, clumsily, like he’s too lanky to control his own limbs, but there is a smile on his face and he’s shifting to face Rhys.

“Alright, alright – I’ll talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so in the original notes, this chapter pans out v. differently? and a lot of stuff that was gonna be in this will be in the next chapter instead. but i lost a load of stuff due to technical difficulties (the recurring bane of my existence, truly) SO this was a rush to FINALLY get it out.


End file.
